


On Lute Strings

by stardustlupin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Older Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Canon Fix-It, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, The lute is magic, canon compliant if you squint, i don't know how to tag things, kind of, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25219396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustlupin/pseuds/stardustlupin
Summary: This was supposed to be a cute little fliclet about a magical bard and his magical lute but then this happened instead. It's my first Witcher fic so any comments and (constructive) criticisms are greatly appreciated!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 193





	On Lute Strings

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a cute little fliclet about a magical bard and his magical lute but then this happened instead. It's my first Witcher fic so any comments and (constructive) criticisms are greatly appreciated!

The first time in happens, he doesn’t notice.

They’ve made camp for the night, in a clearing in the woods. He’s had some bread, and even a little meat when the witcher caught him staring longingly at his roast hare.

A fire burns warm, and light enough to for Jaskier to check the angry red welt on his abdomen, already purple in places. He inhales sharply when he prods at it with a tentative finger, and vaguely wonders how long it’ll last. 

Half dressed, lazing on his bedroll with his back braced against bark, he fiddles with his new lute. Getting a proper feel for the instrument, he plucks a charming, tripping little tune he can play without too much thought — an Elven composition he stumbled upon as a lad in temple school that seems appropriate to the occasion. He marvels at how buttery the strings feel under his fingertips, how clear the notes ring through the trees. A shiver of pure satisfaction shoots through him, from his hands right down to his gut.

“Shut up boy.” The growl comes from the man — mutant — whatever, on the other side of the fire. Jaskier heaves a pointed sigh.

“Goodnight Geralt.”

He gets naught but a half-hum-half-grunt in response as he puts his lute aside and settles into his bedroll.

In the morning he doesn’t notice that his torso is completely unmarred.

* * *

The second instance occurs not much later, but is similarly shrouded by unremarkable circumstance.

It had been a damp few days on the road, and there is not enough herbal tea on the continent to stave off the cold building uncomfortably behind his face.

He watches Geralt fiddle with his various vials and blades and what-nots from his bed on the other side of the room. He shouldn’t — he knows he shouldn’t — but he feels a sort of ache in his chest, knowing that come morning he will likely be too sick to travel. Knowing that he will be left behind. The witcher had said as much, after all.

For now at least, there is a warm room, and food enough, and his music, and he is not alone yet. He picks up his lute and plays that same, well-worn tune, the one that feels like the home he always wanted, the one that sounds like the lullabies he’s never heard. He lets the music wash through him, a stream of sound trickling in his veins, cresting in his skull. He plays until he feels tired, and calm enough to sleep.

Sure enough, he wakes up to a high sun, and the room is much, much emptier than it was the night before.

But he feels better. His nose is clear, the pressure behind his eyes in gone. It’s curious, he thinks, but he never was one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He sets out soon after, not wanting to lose daylight. If he just so happens to run into a certain witcher, well, there’s only one road out of town isn’t there? Somethings just can't be helped.

He does run into him, that night, making camp not too far off the road.

“You’re sick,” comes the other man’s effusive, albeit confused,greeting.

“I _was_ sick. Feeling much better now, thanks for asking.”

“Hm.”

“And thanks for walking so _slow_ , honestly I can’t believe I caught up with you. Aren’t witchers supposed to have phenomenal stamina or something? Maybe you’re getting old — how old are you anyway?”

“Too old for this. Here.” Without looking, Geralt holds out a steaming mug of something.

“What’s this?” Jaskier asked, only slightly suspicious.

“Tea. You still sound hoarse.”

Jaskier can’t say for sure, but he thinks he sees red creeping up Geralt’s neck when he turns his back to Jaskier. 

* * *

So many such incidences scattered through so many years, and with the ignorance of youth Jaskier notices none of them. Just like he fails to notice how at 26 his face looks identical to what it was at 18, or that he still has the same boundless energy. He doesn’t take into consideration paper cuts that are there one minute and gone the next. He doesn’t find the fact that he can’t remember the last time he was properly sick or bruised peculiar at all, despite the frequent bar fights and rambles in the rain.

Until, that is, another night spent under the stars in the woods somewhere.

“Pass me that?” Geralt makes no indication of what he’s after, but Jaskier knows him well enough by now to know he’s means his dagger. He moves to give it to him but it slips out of his hand almost as soon as he picks it up; its point slices though his breeches and a few layers of skin on the way down.

“Ow. Ow. Fucking shit ow.” He peppers the air with curses as he sinks to the ground. The edges of the slit silk begin to turn red with his blood, and he quickly but carefully divests himself of the garment before any more damage can be done. With a sigh that’s more annoyed than anything, Geralt turns around to give him a cursory glance.

“Stay there,” he huffs.

“Solid advice once again there, Geralt. And here I was thinking I’d get a head start on tomorrow’s travels.” It might have sounded scathing if his voice and his breathing weren’t so obviously strained with pain.

“Trust you to split your leg open trying to pass someone a knife.” Geralt finally approaches with his first-aid kit. Calloused fingers tenderly come to rest on Jaskier’s thigh, just barely pulling at his skin, shifting his leg, trying to ascertain the extant of the damage. “Needs stitches,” he says as he applies a salve. “This will keep it from getting infected, and it’ll numb the pain a bit, but not a lot.”

The burning pain in his leg does in fact morph into something cold, and almost soothing, but he had no delusions about how much that will do under the attention of a needle and thread.

“Come on.” Geralt pulls one of Jaskier’s arms up, draping it around his shoulder and pulling him to a standing position. Though the bard has a slighter build, he's not much shorter, so Geralt half drags the bard to sit fireside, setting him down with a gentleness not lost on the injured man.

As Geralt prepares to sew him up, Jaskier grabs his lute from where it lays nearby, and starts playing that old melody to calm himself down. After all these years, the sound has come to resemble home to Geralt almost as much as it does to Jaskier, and he feels tension he didn’t know he carried slough away from his shoulders. There’s an ever so slight shivering where his medallion touches his chest, so slight that Geralt’s conscious mind fails to register it, just like every other time.

But when he returns to Jaskier side the hum of his silver seems suddenly to fill the arena of his chest and skull.

“Jaskier.”

“Hm?”

“Your leg.”

“I’m actually trying rather hard to not think about my leg at present, so if you could just finish up there as quickly as possible I would be very appreciative.”

“Jaskier, _look._ ”

Geralt speaks with such urgency Jaskier does look, his finger’s stilling over his lute when he sees that the gash has been greatly diminished.

“Keep playing.”

Jaskier does, and they both watch as the laceration smooths over, first pink, and then gone, as if nothing had ever happened.

“Well shit.”

“Hm.”

They’re silent for awhile, all eyes fixed on Jaskier’s leg.

“Did you know you could do that?”

“I… no,” Jaskier decides eventually. For once his babbling brook of words is dry, replaced instead by pebble-small memories being flung at him at high speed. “I never bruised.”

“Hm?”

“When you punched me in the stomach. When we met. I never bruised. I don’t remember — the last time I got hurt, or really sick, was… years ago. Years and years.”

“I guess… it explains… things.”

They look at each other then, equal parts worried and concerned and excited, so many questions swirling in the air between them.

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t exactly want anyone knowing that he has a magic lute, so their research into the matter relies almost exclusively on experimentation.

They learn that it works best when Jaskier plays something Elven, and much slower when he plays anything else.

They learn that while he can’t heal Geralt, he can numb the pain if he’s injured. and even — as he discovered _completely by accident —_ induce a short coma.

They learn that Jaskier can’t use this magic to hurt anyone, even certain other ‘bards’ who definitely have it coming.

They learn, after many, many strenuous hours of Jaskier’s instructing Geralt, that it _only_ works when Jaskier plays.

“It’s protecting you,” Geralt proffers. “The lute was Filavendrel’s gift to you, after all.”

“Protecting me from what though?”

Geralt shrugs at that. “Everything. Life.”

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t know _why_ things change between them exactly — he just knows that Geralt doesn’t seem to hold him at such a distance anymore; he lets Jaskier stay closer on hunts, and he’s not so quick to leave him behind. Gone are the days where he seems determined to find any excuse to lose the bard.

And more than that — on cold nights spent under the open sky, Geralt doesn’t just meditate stoically next to Jaskier to keep the younger man warm -- he actually _sleeps_ _,_ holding Jaskier near. And on those occasions when an an inn can only offer one bed, Geralt doesn’t seem to mind so much anymore when Jaskier sleepily snuggles closer, or drapes himself over the Witcher’s chest. There are even times when Jaskier thinks he can feel the thrill of a nose pressed into his hair, or a broad hand stroking his stomach, or fingers lazily scratching his back.

Jaskier doesn’t really know _why_ things change, but he never was one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he's definitely not complaining.

* * *

“Jaskier? Jaskier stay awake, I need you to stay awake okay?” He should have known better than to let the bard get so close to a wyvern but _they’re the stuff of **legends** Geralt,_ _think of the **music** Geralt, the **poetry**_. Geralt tried to tell him that wyverns were ugly bastards — absolutely nothing legendary or poetical about them. But Jaskier had his heart set, and Geralt, well, Geralt gave in.

Guilt helps no one however, so he just presses Roach onward, faster.

“M’tired.” It’s clear that Jaskier is in no condition to play — the gash at his shoulder is bone deep, and it was all Geralt could do to keep it from spurting blood and _stay attached_ before getting him on Roach —so Geralt takes him straight to the town’s healer.

“Just a little longer. I promise.” Leaning forward, he presses a kiss into Jaskier’s sweat-soaked hair. _Stay awake, please stay awake._

By the time they get to the healer Jaskier’s skin is on fire, and he’s coughing strangled, wet coughs, and there are cuts and bruises covering his entire body that have no reason to be there. It’s only when he sees a familiar gash on the bard’s right thigh that he figures out what’s happening.

* * *

The last thing Jaskier remembers is a gigantic angry lizard screaming at him and lunging. Then a searing pain turned his vision white, then more pain ripped through his body as he was thrown, weightless into absolute dark.

Something pulled him cruelly from the vortex of nothingness, arranged his mangled bodyinto what he thinks was an upright position. Then more pain as he was jostled about, more pain as he was surely _dismembered_ , more pain as tendrils of hot summer air whipped at his exposed flesh. There was more jostling, and he tried to throw up but he didn’t know where his stomach was, and liquid fire was flung over whatever pieces were left of him, and there was an awful lot of screaming but it couldn’t have been him because he didn’t know where his lungs or throat were either.

And throughout he thought there was a voice telling him to stay awake, or go to sleep, or telling him he was okay (which seems like at odd thing to say to someone who was just ripped apart limb from limb) and he thinks the voice was Geralt’s but that can’t be right because now every time he opens his eyes to see him he’s not there, and — well, that’s it’s own kind of pain isn’t it?

He’s not sure how much time has passed between the lizard, the fire, and him waking up to find himself in one piece. One piece, but battered and bandaged, and too hot and _very_ congested. He does not think he's being dramatic when he concludes that he's more miserable than he’s ever been.

The room he finds himself in is bare, but pleasant enough. Where ever he is is made of a warm, gold-honey sort of wood. Sunlight streams in through wide, open windows, gauzy curtains float listlessly in a gentle breeze. He’s sure the mattress and sheets he’s on would be more than comfortable if he wasn’t quite so sore. There’s a glass, and a pitcher of water on a small table to his side. He’s working up the courage to prop himself up and drink some when a strange man walks in.

“Ah, you’re awake!” The smile he gives reaches his soft grey eyes, and it warms Jaskier to see someone seemingly so happy to see him alive.

He tries to ask where he is, but his throat feels like sand paper, and all he manages is a hoarse sort of scraping sound.

“It’s probably best you don’t talk for now,” the strange man says as he moves to perch himself on the edge of the bed. “Here let me help you with that.” He fills the glass, lifts Jaskier’s head with practiced care and brings the water to his chapped lips. Jaskier manages to down half of it, and while swallowing is painful, the cool water feels heavenly going down.

“First,” the man offers, his countenance shifting into something more authoritative, “you must be wondering where you are. If you remember the last village you were in, this cabin is a little outside of that. I am a healer — you can call me Varden — and your friend brought you here about five days ago. He said you were attacked by a wyvern, but you had a multitude of other injuries on top of that and a rather nasty illness to boot. Your friend also informed me that you have a magic lute.”

He pauses then, giving Jaskier time to throw him a questioning, mildly suspicious look.

“I’ve had a look at it, and I concluded that you and your friend were right. Its magic does protect you, so long as you play it. When you were attacked the shock your body went through temporarily severed your connection to its magic, and all the injuries and illnesses it protected you from came back with a vengeance. I know it must be tempting now to make all this pain go away, but I really think you better let yourself heal properly to avoid this happening again, and much worse.”

After a moment of contemplation, Jaskier nods in agreement. His stomach knots, but surely that’s just a symptom of his ailments.

“Good!” He claps his hands together, the exuberance he first displayed returning in full force.“Now that you’re properly awake I’ll make you some soup. You just rest, alright? You’ve made remarkable progress the last few days but there’s still quite a ways for you to go.”

He leaves then, and Jaskier can hear the clinking of pots and pans as he moves around the kitchen. Tired, but no longer able to sleep, restless, but unable to move, a dull ache throbbing through his whole body, he fixes his eyes on the ceiling, trying to find patterns and shapes and in the woodgrain.

“You’re awake.”

He doesn’t need to turn to see who it is, so he doesn’t.

“I had to complete a couple of contracts. To pay the healer.”

There’s nothing to say to that, and even if there were, he can’t speak, so he keeps his eyes fixed firmly upward.

“Jaskier—” Geralt takes a few steps closer, thinks better of it, and leaves.

The ceiling blurs, and Jaskier can’t make sense of it anymore.

They stay another three weeks — or Jaskier does, and Geralt scrounges up some more coin, coming and going as he pleases.

On days he does stay; he curls up on the floor next to Jaskier’s bed, where Jaskier slides in and out of fitful, fevered dreams. When the sick man hears a gravelly voices cooing comfort, or he feels a rough hand push the hair from his brow, or wipes the sweat from his face, he wants to believe it’s Geralt. Lucid, Varden’s is the only face he sees.

Finally the fever breaks, and Jaskier’s wounds have healed well enough for travel. Geralt returns and pays Varden more than was asked. He runs his hand through Jaskier’s hair, peers at him closely, much like he’s checking on a dog who’d just run headfirst into a door.

“Ready to go?”

Jaskier, his voice still worn, and slightly put off by the gesture, only nods in response.

Without another word, Geralt takes Jaskier’s pack, puts him on Roach, takes Roach’s lead, and guides them away from the cottage, and back on the Path.

_Thething is,_ despite his tepid countenance, Jaskier is sure that Geralt’s angry at him. Or he’s angry about _something_ at any rate.

Perhaps it’s the frustration at having been tied too long to one place — ridiculous really. It’s not like anyone asked him to stay. It can’t be about the coin, seeing as he willingly over-paid.

So maybe it’s just that the sudden and violent reminder of Jaskier’s mortality pierced the both of them, and tore to ribbons the fragile intimacy they had spent so long weaving.

“You can’t play off every cut and flu from now on.” He says as they enter the woods.

“I know.”

“It’s dangerous.”

"I know." Jaskier supposes that he’ll just have to reacquaint himself with a life of being left behind.

Neither of them speak for the rest of the day. But then that night Jaskier can't fall asleep, his still-frail body shivering, too sensitive to the open air. He hears a resigned sigh, which is soon followed by the warmth of Geralt’s chest pressed behind him. Geralt’s hand cards his hair back, away from his eyes, Geralt’s nose brushes his scalp, Geralt inhales deeply, and holds him close with an arm firmly pressed against the length of his torso, and Jaskier thinks that maybe things will be okay. When he feels a chaste kiss at the back of his neck, he’s almost sure they will be, but then he wonders if it was a goodbye. 

* * *

“I’m fine.”

“Jask—”

“It’s fine, I’ll be right as rain by morning.”

“Jaskier, you can’t. You promised.”

“I never promised, and I’m coming with you.”

“You’ll stay here. I’ll pick up a contract or two and I’ll come back for you in a few days.”

“No you won’t.” He doesn’t know whether it sounded more a directive, or the wounded _that’s-what you-always-say_ it really was. In the stunned silence that follows he feels more and more like he’s confessed to something, so he adds “I’m not letting you leave me Geralt,” — which is infinitely worse.

And now he can’t look at the other man, and now his face is burning and his eyes are watering in a way that has nothing to do with the illness preparing to wrack through his body.

“Okay.” Whatever Jaskier was expecting to hear, it wasn’t that. It startles him enough to make eye contact. Geralt holds his gaze, and takes a few, cautious steps closer. “I’ll stay.”

“You don’t have to.” Jaskier offers in a weak attempt to maintain some level of dignity.

“No, I want to.” Geralt places his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, then slowly grazes them down his arms as his continues. “I’ll stay. With you.” The words are nearly a whisper as he presses his lips to Jaskier’s too-warm brow. “Just please go to bed. You need rest.”

Without out waiting for a response, Geralt manoeuvres the sick man to the bed, tucking him in. When he straightens, Jaskier looks like he wants to protest, but Geralt slips in beside him before he has the chance. Propping himself himself up on his elbow, he glides his hand over the still smooth skin of Jaskier’s stomach.

“This okay?”

Jaskier nods once, not trusting himself to speak, and promptly falls asleep to keep himself from _thinking_ more than anything else.

It’s dark when he wakes up, the sky outside a flat, moonless black. The bed feels much colder and emptier. _He_ feels much colder, and there’s a sticky film of dried sweat clinging to his skin. Flinging off the blanket sends a violent shiver though his body, bare except for his small clothes. The room is too dark for him to see.

“Jaskier.” He hears a voice, soft and deep from the corner. A candle flickers to life, and in its small glow he sees the vague shadow of a familiar form. “I’m right here.”

“I’m cold.”

“I’ve sent for some firewood. Come eat.”

Uneasy, not quite trusting his senses, Jaskier approaches the small round table in the corner of the room, and sits down. He hears the scrape of a plate being pushed towards him and when his eyes adjust to the low light he makes out bread and butter, some fruit — filling stuff that his presently delicate stomach can handle. He mumbles a thanks and sets about feeding himself.

He can see, in his peripheral vision, the other man leaning down, but he doesn’t understand the movement until he feels a large hand grasp his ankle. Geralt straightens, and with him brings Jaskier's foot to rest on his lap. Holding it in both hands, he slowly massages his thumbs into the arch. Jaskier realises then that he’s being watched. Closely.

He says nothing — _can_ say nothing, and senses some smugness coming from the Witcher at having finally rendered him speechless. There is definitely an excess of smugness when Geralt raises his leg, and kisses the balls of his foot, all the while studying Jaskier, who keeps his eyes fixed on his plate. The blush that blooms over his face is near violent (surely the fever isn’t helping, but still) and he’s grateful that Geralt’s colour vision isn’t its best in the dark.

It’s harder than it should be to suppress the needy, plaintive sound that scratches at his throat when Geralt stands, answering a knock at the door. But then a bowl of hot stew is pushed in front of him, and a small fire is lit in the hearth, and Geralt sits down again, and takes Jaskier’s other foot in his hands. This time he keeps his eyes on his task, and lets Jaskier eat untroubled.

Now that the room’s a bit brighter, he casts his eyes around and is relieved to notice that Geralt’s packs are no longer waiting by the door. He does however, feel a twist in his stomach when he notices he can’t see his lute. He wants to say something about it, but he has the irrational fear that Geralt will stop massaging him, won’t sleep next to him later, won’t stick around til morning. So he says nothing, and Geralt’s hands work up his calves, and his body keeps Jaskier’s warm all night, and in the morning he rubs Jaskier’s back while he throws up bile, and keeps Jaskier's hair from sticking to his forehead.

In the afternoon Jaskier gets squirrelly, and he’s hot and tired and he needs to do _something_ with his hands.

His lute makes a reappearance, but he can feel the heat of Geralt watching him from the corners of his amber eyes. So he settles on the bed and plays something distinctly non-magical, and feels much better anyway.

* * *

He hadn’t been _serious_ , of course, when he’d wondered if his small brand of magic could mend his broken heart. But the tune had always provided him comfort, so he plucks away in the corner of a tavern, nursing an ale and his bruised ego.

So he’s not actually that far from the mountain, so perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised when a certain silver haired Witcher makes an appearance, but he’s had quite enough of bonds forged by magic against peoples’ wills _thank you very much,_ so he promptly determines to book it to his room.

He only just manages to get a leg on the bottom stair when he feels a grab at his elbow.

“Jaskier —“ It sounds more exasperated that anything.

The bard turns sharply around, throwing as much vitriol into his still-boyish countenance as he can manage. It must work, because he’s never seen Geralt look quite so taken aback.

“I — I didn’t mean it.”

 _Of course_ he didn’t mean it. Jaskier _knows_ he didn’t. But is was too much everything he’d always feared, and he still hasn’t heard an apology — hasn’t once, for anything since they’ve met — and he _knows_ how Geralt feels about bonds forged by magic.

“Fuck off.” He wrests his elbow from the other man’s grip, and he doesn’t play himself to sleep that night, or any night after that.

* * *

It was much easier than it should have been — swearing off music. Music-less days turn into music-less months into a music-less almost two years, and twenty-two years of not-ageing catches up to him both gradually and all at once.

His jawline sharpens, the lines of his body harden, a significant amount of grey comes to salt his hair. He grows a beard — a proper one — and that’s almost _all_ grey. And he likes it; studying himself in the bathroom mirror, in his lodgings in Oxenfert, he once again appreciates the air of authority his new look lends him and, well, he _does_ look rather dashing.

He’d returned to Oxenfurt almost immediately after the mountain. One cannot be a travelling bard if one does not play music, and it took nearly all his coin just to get to the city. It was nearing winter when he arrived, his old classroom and lodgings were already prepared and waiting for him. Her threw himself into teaching with new verve, and was quickly offered a more permanent position.

People wonder why he stopped his travels — most assume he just got tired. They wonder too why he no longer plays music, but they have the good sense not to ask. Until, one night, fireside in a cozy tavern, surrounded by other faculty members and a few students staying in the city over Yule.

“Come on Professor, just one song,” a rather eager young man implores.

“Yeah _professor_ ,” goads one of his colleagues. He rolls his eyes at her — _as if you don’t have your fair share of fawning students Celine._

“I’d be happy to oblige,” he lies, “but as it happens I do not have my lute,” and that’s true enough.

“I’ve got one!” Another over-eager student proffers the instrument and well, he’s in it now isn’t he?

He takes the instrument and a shock goes through him at how _good_ it feels just to hold it in his hands. He takes his time, running a hand along the varnished wood, tuning it just so. He won’t play anything Elven, and his own repertoire is entirely out of the question. He settles for something traditional to the season; something cheery, that has people singing and stomping and clapping along in an instant.

He feels that thing like magic coursing through him as he starts swooping around the tavern in graceful-as-ever strides. His voice is out of practice but really only he can tell, and only just. It’s deeper than he remembers, and it reverberates easily over the crowd. He flits and flirts, and everyone is smiling and cheering, everyone is happy. And of course, no one notices how his skin begins to smooth out, just a little.

That night he retrieves his old friend where he’d stowed it out of sight, at the very top of his wardrobes. Where the other lute felt good, this feels _right_. The strings are buttery under his fingertips, and the notes ring true and clear without his having tuned them.

He doesn’t play anything Elven, and he doesn’t so much as think in the direction of a certain Witcher, but it feels like home anyway. After an unthinkable stretch of time, Jaskier finally feels himself returning home.

* * *

Campus is blissfully empty over Spring vacation, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to compose in the open air.

 _Compose_. Just the word itself thrills him. What he’s working on is nothing like before, naturally. _That_ well of inspiration was drained and sealed shut. Never again will he risk diving into its pitch depths. Now his head has been turned by a volume of old poetry he smuggled out of some long-forgotten corner of a university library.

There’s a courtyard —framed by elegant arches and cherry trees with especially deep, richly coloured blossoms — that he’s particularly fond of. He sits there now, on a marble bench in the shade, his book open in front of him as he thinks of how best to transmute the spirit of the verses into music.

He plucks idly at lute strings — so long out of practice he hardly knows where to start. With a long suffering sigh he lies down, and the idle plucking transforms thoughtlessly into a song that sounds familiar, homely, and he’s thinking of the hero in the epic, with his wicked grin and long white hair and his amber eyes like a — no. The hero’s eyes are green, and nothing like a cat’s, and he doesn’t know why he would think they were because he definitely wasn’t thinking of the man who is now standing over him, looking down with a vaguely bemused expression.

“Geralt?” He scrambles to a standing position, unsure whether to run or attempt a punch, or if he’s even awake. “What — how — _why_ are you here? You know what no,” he decides and begins gathering his things. “Just, fuck off alright? I don’t — I can’t — _I won’t do this again_.” As composed as he’ll ever be, considering the circumstances, he turns his back on the man he once thought was his and walks away. But there are so many things he needs to say.

“I loved you,” he spits, wheeling around, unable to keep the hurt out of it. “I loved you more than I loved myself and you —“ he breaks off, a sort of desperation plain in his voice and on his face. “I never knew where I stood with you.”

Geralt pauses. Words were never his strong suit, and he considers his very carefully. “I loved you too.”

“Oh fuck off with that.”

“I was self-centred, and I was cruel —“ He approaches slowly, carefully, as if hoping the other man won’t notice.

“No fucking shit.”

“— but I loved you. I still do.”

“Fuck you.”

“I miss you.”

“I gave up on you a long time ago.”

“It’s hell without you.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I _still_ don’t know where I stand with you.”

“Let me show you.” He’d come to a pause in front of the other man, so close he can feel his breath on his skin. With one hand on the nape of Jaskier’s neck, and the other flat against his stomach, Geralt pulls him in for a kiss — and emphatic, _I-will-always-love-you_ , kiss.

And maybe Jaskier goes more willingly than he’d like, or is expressly good for his ego, but he’s waited so long for this. Eventually he manages to pull himself away just enough to press their foreheads together.

“You’re not off the hook you know.”

“I know.” But Geralt only smiles, and kisses him again. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously love (need) immortal Jaskier, but I am also not immune to the [charms](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/190932290034/i-love-immortal-jaskier-concept-but-i-raise-you) [of](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/190953205554/here-some-more-aged-up-jaskier) [older](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/611509872666836992/the-story-is-this-while-jaskier-was-teaching-in) [Jaskier](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/612659849250078720/continuing-my-exploration-of-older-prof-jaskier), so I gave myself both.


End file.
